The following pieces contain language that may be offensive. Some of the pieces deal with sensitive matters, surviving 7 years of child sexual abuse and 16 years of mental and physical child abuse. I used to think being a survivor of childhood abuse gave me a purpose - but now that I have a daughter who was born with a life threatening CHD called Truncus Arteriosus, my purpose has become greater than me - my work has shifted slightly to include her. Enjoy!

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Forgotten Not Invisible - A Fictional Short Story

There she stood beneath the ripped awning of the abandoned building that provided very little shelter from the elements. The temperature had dropped 17 degrees since sunset.The rain had been relentless for two days.One leg extended in front and the other bent at the knee with her tiny size seven-foot resting against the brick wall.Her toes extending beyond her shoes from the pressure of her body resisting the 6-inch heels.Her legs were bare and her skirt was so short and tight as if she had been poured into it – painting a canvas that showed a certain lack of nourishment.Her shirt was clingy and revealed her modest breasts and sunken shoulders.Although she had a plump smile, her eyes were tired and sad. She was beautiful, in spite of the drooping face that tells a story of a girl who has aged faster than the years. She worked hard to keep the smile on her face. Almost like a plaster statue, never changing.Attracting only one type of being.Supplying the service of a demand that would prove overwhelming at times, but a way of life.Many walked by with a judgmental grimace and glaring eyes, but she stood steadfast. She seemed unparsed by those that treated her as if she were no better than bubble gum scrapped off their expensive shoes on the sidewalk.

She knew she was not invisible, but the reality that wore heavy on her soul was she had been forgotten. No family, no friends, no allies, no hope. Well that is if you do not count the sleaze ball who on most nights would take almost all of the money she worked so hard to earn. She managed to barter enough to buy some artisan bread and a pint of milk from the nearby bakery.Each day the streets would fill with the freshly baked smell of goodness, an aroma she looked forward to each day.Something many would take for granted, but provided her with a small bit of comfort and a chance to feel the good in the world. She had visited the bakery every day, well every day since arriving in this city, she had been just 13 on her first visit.That was three years, 2 months, and 12 days ago.

But tomorrow, she would not visit the bakery.Little did she know, in a few hours her voice, her soul, and her life would be taken. Cut short of a deserving childhood filled with laughter.He drove a nice car, he said all the right words, even pulled from his pocket the prize she had become all too dependent upon.He stopped the car, got out, walked to her side, and opened the door like the perfect gentleman. She was impressed, no one had done that before.She was intoxicated from the blasting heat coming from the vents, permeating her skin, sinking right to the bone.She looked around his car, noticing the disturbing cleanliness of the dark, leather interior. He walked around to the driver’s side and slipped behind the wheel, pausing for moment to look over at her, satisfied with his choice.He gave her a soft smile and began to drive away.

At 6 a.m. like every day before, the bakery owner turned on his lights and opened up his business.Waiting for the girl he had only know by her first name, Shelly, to come for her daily bread and milk. She did not come that day or any other day thereafter. Shelly left this world with the last thought of being forgotten, visible only to those with bad intentions.

Two weeks later, they found Shelly’s naked body in a wooded area along an empty stretch of highway just outside of town. That same day the bakery owner would recognize Shelly’s photo from the back of an expired milk carton in his store refrigerator. Her pimp would grow weary at the thought of her absence and his lost profit.

From beyond the darkness, Shelly looks upon the world, unforgiving.However, she takes a small bit of comfort on this day, the day she would not be forgotten or invisible, even though her life meant more dead than alive.

Who am I?

I discovered my voice several years ago through journal-style writing and poetry. While not always using proper English or grammar, I use blogging as a way to heal and write about sensitive issues. I will always tell it like it is and make no apologies for writing what I am thinking. I love to write creatively. While most of my work deals with non-fiction pieces, I also enjoy writing fictional short stories.